


Felix Culpa

by Molly_Ann



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: At least some morals, M/M, Masturbation, Misogyny, Porn With Plot, Tony Stark Has Morals, Underage Drinking, but very little plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Ann/pseuds/Molly_Ann
Summary: “Honestly, I shouldn’t be allowed around people. I’ve made innuendos, kid. About you! To you! I get you drunk, I make you spidey-suits, I-” A pause as Mr. Stark’s eyebrows knit together and he looks down under the water. “Shit, is there anything more suggestive than a Jacuzzi and these shorts?!”Work In Progress.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89





	Felix Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this mid-2018 when I was real into Starker. It sat in my google docs for over 2 years before I adopted it back.
> 
> Beta'd, and thank you so much to my amazing beta for doing all this work so far! The next chapters will undoubtedly be unbeta'd due to the fact that they helped me through it around two years ago, and since I have left the discord server we were both in I cant get hold of them! If you see this here, if you're somehow into Starker after all these years, please get in touch so I can credit you properly!
> 
> I'm going to estimate there's two more chapters on this long ass piece of work. Two long chapters of smut, pining, and if I'm feeling particularly cruel, slow-burn and slight angst.

Peter thrums with something electric. Sitting in the too-plush leather seats of Mr. Stark’s Audi, he feels too alive for this moment to be enclosed in red leather. The champagne glass in his hand threatens to spill over with every small quake of his fingers. His fingers – and by god, they itch to grab onto something, to climb walls or to shoot web or _do something_ to release his restlessness. He’s shaking, he’s electrified and he’s –

He’s spilling the probably ridiculously expensive alcohol over his fingers. The sloshing of it in the glass is enough to send some over the side. Reacting out of instinct, he licks up around the rim of the glass to catch the booze before it falls into a sticky puddle in his lap. He holds the glass steady with one hand and licks at the one that’s covered in champagne. 

Amongst his fumble, and the realisation that champagne is totally overrated and tastes worse than some beers, Peter makes note to look up into the front of the car to make sure Happy, Mr. Stark’s bodyguard, isn’t looking at him. He isn’t, and Peter thanks God for this information. He just hopes one of the only men he cares about making a good impression on doesn’t think he’s a slob.

The journey ticks on, and finally, Peter is sure his hands are no longer wet, nor dry and sticky, with the sweet alcohol. It’s a boring ride, even when he can hear and feel the car’s true value all around him in the engine noise and power as they pull away from a stoplight. Happy had hinted sternly that he didn’t value small talk while driving before they set out, so Peter – not wanting to annoy his potential deputy employer – is quiet. He drinks a bit more of the fizzy stuff in contented quiet. 

The burning anticipation of meeting Mr. Stark is there alright – but the champagne helps to drive it down just enough to dull the spider senses. After finishing one glass, Happy keeps a close eye on him using the rear-view mirror, but oddly enough, offers Peter another one. So he takes it, because consumable alcohol is rare to come across when you’re a fifteen year old American that lives in Queens suburbs. Best he could ever get was beer from Aunt May’s fridge at quiet family parties when he’s sure everyone, including his Aunt, wouldn’t miss it. 

Peter wouldn’t say he’s drunk when the car pulls to a stop – he may be young but he’s too careful to put his first meeting with The Tony Stark in jeopardy. Though, the two little glasses of bubbly he has had seems to have helped dramatically; the urge to run about and attempt to scream his glee so loud his two-years-younger-self will stop jerking off to Iron Man posters and scream back is no longer present. It is instead replaced with an urge to impress. 

Happy gets out and opens the door for Peter as he’d been expecting. Peter awkwardly steps out – awkwardly despite his further wants to impress. Whatever, clumsiness can’t be cured. Neither, apparently, can two glasses of champagne. 

“Mr. Stark is waiting for you upstairs,” Happy says.

For a moment, Peter assumes he has to get up there and find the man himself. Up the – wow, tall illuminated building. It’s like a wider, shorter and infinitely larger version of Stark-stroke-Avengers tower. So cool! The illusions of wandering it himself, however, are calmed by Happy continuing with, “I’ll escort you to him.” 

And that is… well, that’s perfectly fine with Peter. He’s meeting Tony-Fucking-Stark, for god’s sake! Anything would be fine by him right about now. He manages out a “Thanks,” a little belatedly, but Peter Parker is allowed a moment of awe at the sheer size of Tony Stark’s house before actually being allowed entry, okay? 

He follows Happy into an elevator adjacent to the front door. He’s careful not to bump into any spectacularly expensive ornaments on the way up, because holy fuck, are those things costly, and holy hell, he is a lightweight for getting a little tipsy on two glasses of champagne.

The ride up is quick but undeniably awkward. Peter supposes Happy could make even Tony, himself, feel a little awkward with all the bodyguard-style unperturbed-staring-into-space and slight leering, but whatever. He’s still in awe that he’s meeting the man himself, and everyone he associates with.

The elevator door opens and Peter steps out into an open hallway of the penthouse. It’s only purpose is to look pretty with large windows, potted plants, and to buffer people into a single door that lies ahead. Tony’s office, or maybe lab, Peter presumes.

Happy, however, does not step out with him. Traitor, leaving him alone with his awkward clumsy ways to introduce himself to Mr. Stark.

“He’s in that room ahead, kid.” And definitely a traitor as he presses the elevator button to return to the ground floor. “I’ll be in the car when you need me.”

The elevator doors close, and Peter is alone. In a hallway. With Tony Stark’s residence straight ahead of him. Oh god, he’s really not going to freak. Okay, maybe totally freaking out.

He takes the first step towards and then the second. Soon, walking becomes automatic like breathing again, and he’s within knocking distance of the door. He’s not freaking out. Peter knocks.

“Come in.” And that’s Tony Stark’s voice inviting him into his _room._

Peter opens the door, taking a breath like it’s his last one. And it’s knocked out of him as soon as he steps in the room.

The man himself is standing behind his desk, ignorant of the chair beside it, sipping from a half-full whisky glass. Upon seeing Peter, he sits down in the chair and practically drops his drink onto the table.

“Parker. Come sit down.”

Mr. Stark gestures to a plush seat opposite his desk, and that’s all the invitation Peter needs. He tries to stride, instead of awkwardly shuffling like he would normally do, and hopes it comes out confident. Only in his wildest dreams could he have imagined being across from Tony Stark like this, and yet those are not thoughts for right now – for the order that followed his name would be something like ‘bend over the desk,’ and –

And definitely not thoughts for right now.

So Peter sits and tries not to think.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Tony gestures around to a wall cabinet on the otherwise of his desk. There are ornate decanters on the top, a mini-fridge where shelving should be on one side, and glasses of all shapes and sizes stacked on the shelving of the other. Peter observes the cabinet for a minute, attempting to look like he’s making a choice.

“I have beers and champagne on ice or in the fridge if you can’t handle a stiff drink yet.”

Peter whips back to face Mr. Stark then because the man seems almost amused. It sounds almost like a challenge to Peter, and now he’s looking back to the decanters atop the cabinet to assess which one looks the least lethal.

Mr. Stark keeps looking at him expectantly though and Peter feels he has to either announce a choice or to clarify his age with the man. He shouldn’t be offered a drink by a _superhero_ , of all people! Settling on the latter, because he wouldn’t want Mr. Stark under any illusions, Peter clears his throat.

“Mr. Stark, thanks for the offer but I’m afraid I’m well below the legal age.” And colour Peter impressed with himself, because his voice doesn’t even shake. “It’s bad enough that I had two glasses of champagne in your car, let alone-”

Peter cuts himself off when he notices Mr. Stark smiling at him.

“Really, Parker, it’s no bother.”

And wow, Tony Stark arranging a meeting to discuss superhero business was one thing, but drinking with Tony Stark over said meeting?! Peter’s mind is going over all kinds of scenarios, none of which are helpful to his current predicament.

“I’m glad to hear Happy treated you well. He did, didn’t he?”

And the question is rhetorical in that totally Tony Stark way which means he’s rambling a little. Almost to confirm Peter’s suspicions, the man stands up from behind his desk and makes a beeline for the cabinet. 

“Make a choice, kid. But if you do wanna play it safe, I have cola.” 

Peter is quite honestly stunned but tries to relax himself in the seat through the emotion. Feeling like another glass of champagne will help, he looks over to where Mr. Stark is, again, waiting on his response and says,

“Champagne, please.”

The man laughs and obliges, seemingly cheery in his half-sobriety, and pulls a fresh bottle from the mini-fridge. The popping of the cork is loud and startles Peter almost as much as the livid amount of bubbles that appear in the champagne flute as soon as Mr. Stark begins pouring.

“You chose good, kid – god knows when I was your age my poison was already whiskey.” 

And that’s a shocking thought but one to take into consideration, nonetheless. _You should never meet your heroes_ , he remembers Uncle Ben’s wise words and can’t help but associate them with this scenario. 

After all, this is none other than Iron Man in the flesh instead of the suit. Peter supposes he should have assumed meeting someone this frivolously rich would be an all together different experience as opposed to expecting the patriotic righteousness of Captain America. The drink being laid down on the desk in front of him shocks Peter out of his thoughts. He barely remembers a quick, “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” as the man seats himself behind his desk once again and picks up a drink that Peter assumes is whiskey.

“That’s not a problem, kid, and trust me,” a pause as Tony sips his drink. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Stark, himself, sends Peter an almost salacious grin that makes the boy’s palms start to sweat.

“Now, somewhere in that brain, you gotta be wondering why I called you here, correct?”

Peter nods enthusiastically and smiles a little weakly. More champagne. More freaking champagne sounds like a good idea. Calm the brain, loosen the tongue. 

He takes a sip, careful not to slurp or choke on the bubbles.

“I kinda thought it must be to do with my-” Peter pauses a minute, thinking of how to word it. Something as cliché as ‘extracurricular activities’ won’t cut it, and now he’s paused for so long it would probably send a better message saying something as dorky as ‘alter ego’ or ‘spider powers’. 

“Friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?” Tony finishes for him, and Peter looks up from where his eyes were in his lap. “I am correct, right? Because if you are my nine-o’clock come early, I must have a word with that company about vetting their employees correctly – I like ‘em young but not that young.”

Tony looks him up and down for dramatic effect, and Peter feels the urge to cover himself in embarrassment.

It’s such a what-the-fuck moment that all he can do is shake his head and squeak out, “Friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.”

Mr. Stark grins widely at that and then has the decency to look at least a little apologetic. 

“Sorry, kid. Too young for that kind of humour?”

And… Oh. Mr. Stark just made a sex joke… About him?! Peter dampens down the urge to blush by taking another long, _long_ sip-come-swig of his champagne. All the while, he can feel Mr. Stark looking at him amusedly.

“So, friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, I have an offer for you that definitely isn’t friendly and definitely isn’t neighbourhood.” 

Now, Peter is sipping more champagne to calm everything in him that’s screaming about the Avengers. Of course, he wouldn’t be asked to be an Avenger; he’s too young and raw, not nearly as controlled as he should be. But of course, he can still _hope,_ because what else are fantasies for?

“I’m listening,” He manages, because at the start of the night he had been about impressing Mr. Stark. Now, he’s just about holding on for dear life, hoping the urge to leap out of the window and swing all the way back to his bed in Queens doesn’t become too strong.

“I could use someone of your expertise and intelligence-” And holy hell, is that _Tony Stark_ calling _him_ intelligent?! But okay, he’s listening. “-To help me _talk_ some sense into an _old friend_.”

And Peter really doesn’t feel intelligent right now because it takes him a minute to gasp and reply.

“You mean… Captain America, about the Sokovia Accords?” And wow, now he must really look like a child in a toy store. Eyes wide as saucers, and really… This is Avengers business.

“Yep.” Mr. Stark pops the ‘p’ loudly and watches Peter’s face over his glass. “I’d understand if you’re not interested, because when I say talk, kid, I mean…” 

“Of course I’d be-!” Peter’s face falters for just a moment when he registers what he’d be signing up for. Talking. Fighting. On the battlefield with – _against_ Captain America.

Well, shit. Peter finishes his champagne in one mouthful, mindful of Mr. Stark’s amused look. He alters his next statement to, “Are you sure the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man is qualified for this?”

This gets a beaming smile from Mr. Stark as he finishes his own drink and gestures to Peter. 

“Just for that, I like you already.”

Peter blushes. But he’s entirely uncertain whether he’s flushing from the alcohol (wow, definitely more drunk than he thought) or blushing from the compliment.

“Another drink, kid?” Mr. Stark offers to break the short silence.

The man stands, whisky glass in hand, and moves over to the ornate decanters to pour himself some more. Peter ponders on a response. Sure, it would be unwise to drink more – especially because he has to return home to Aunt May tonight – but something in him really, really wants to share another drink with Mr. Stark. 

And then a sudden thought hits him.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, kid?” His back still to Peter, Tony finishes pouring himself a drink and turns, taking a sip as he walks back to the desk.

“Are you getting me drunk so I’m more likely to agree?”

And wow, he really did just blurt that out. Upon looking up to the man’s face however, Peter is certain he hasn’t shocked or pissed him off. Stark’s grin is amused as he seats himself back at the desk, setting down the glass carefully.

“I might just be.” A devious smirk. Peter gulps. “You’ve seen the red-and-blue in action, on the news or on YouTube or whatever.” Another pause. Tony takes the opportunity to snag Peter’s empty glass and walk back to the liquor cabinet with it in hand. “Not somebody you want to face in Fight Club.” Tony makes a show out of retrieving the champagne and pouring it. Peter’s mouth goes dry as he watches in awed silence, barely registering what’s being said.

Tony Stark. Is getting him drunk. So that he becomes more agreeable. Isn’t that breaking several laws, and quite possibly several social and moral taboos?!

Thoughts flood into Peter’s head, none of them moral at all. All the things he’d let the man do to him drunk. Sober. Wherever, whenever. You get the picture. And the unintentionally stunning view of Mr. Stark’s flank is doing nothing to discourage those pictures.

Arm stretched, tensed as he pours champagne. Neck arched just so that the rich, silvering hairs on his nape are on display, his rear, a desirable curve in suit pants. Tony turns around, and Peter manages to flick his eyes away just in time before he tunnel visions in on the motions of Mr. Stark’s crotch. 

“See something you like there, kid?” And it’s teasing, said lightly like maybe even Tony didn’t catch him staring. Peter definitely blushes this time and accepts the champagne when it’s handed to him. Definitely more alcohol to handle this conversation.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” 

Tony’s still standing over him in his personal space, even after giving him the glass. Peter eyes the wall straight ahead and sips the new champagne. 

“It’s fine, kid. Bit of hero worship never did any of us any harm.” 

“Really?!” And wow, Peter, that really was a squawk. He looks back to Tony, trying to keep the incredulous look off his face. Mr. Stark seems to be in the middle of pondering an answer as he moves to sit back behind his desk. 

“No.” A long pause.

Peter puts his drink on the table, carefully. His fingers shake a little.

“Cap can’t get enough of the hordes of adoring children, Nat detests being a sex symbol, and I’m being treated the same way I have been my whole life anyway.”

It’s almost a morose phrase, but if something could come out morose in the sarcastic, jovial way Tony says everything, Peter supposes he’d eat his own mask. 

“When you say Nat, you mean Natasha-” And he really can’t contain the wonderment in his voice at that, flowing out like a dam breaking. Secret Avengers secrets? And he thought this night couldn’t get any better!

“Romanoff, kid. _The_ Black Widow.”

And wow… It’s not like he didn’t know that already via Ned’s vigorous deep-web internet searches in secret government information, but still. The very idea shocks him to the core.

“I’ll bet she’s been at the pinnacle of your wet dreams since you began having them, heh?” 

And oh god, the eyebrow is quirked, the smirk is back and Peter can feel his palms sweating, at loss for words. Before he has time to answer, (or think about which Avenger has been the focus of his wet dreams) Mr. Stark is back to explaining his former statement. 

“Oh, and kid? Forget I ever told you that, because when you meet her in Germany, she is not going to be happy if she finds out I gave you her name.” 

“O-Okay,” Peter manages, and yet again wow, because he’s proud of himself for managing a couple of syllables.

“And especially, don’t tell her that I was drinking when I told you.” Mr. Stark, as if to punctuate his point, takes a long sip from his glass.

There’s quiet then that builds like a tidal surge. Peter sips his full, refreshingly cold drink and wills himself to forget everything he’s just heard, except the part where Mr. Stark had said ‘Wet dreams’. He wants to stash that metaphorical MP3 file somewhere private.

Mr. Stark looks over to him and studies him for a short part of that quiet-tidal surge thing before Peter comes to the realisation that he’s waiting for an answer.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Stark! Well, I mean no- I mean.” Peter gives up for a moment when a broad smile crosses Mr. Stark’s face. He tries again, quickly, beet red, stumbling over his words, deeply embarrassed. “But of course I wouldn’t tell her that-”

He breaks off in confusion when the man begins _laughing_ at him.

“It’s no problem, kid.” Mr. Stark assures him, though it does little to settle Peter’s fluttering heart. “So have I convinced you yet?”

The eyebrows wriggle in a way that can only be described as disgustingly suggestive. Stark leans over the table to broach the distance, arms crossed, head forward, face expectant. 

Peter gulps. Remembers that the man can read him like a book from this distance, so he sips a bit more champagne to help cover up his previous actions.

“I…I,” Peter begins, but that’s all he can seem to do. Something like this, he should be racing at the chance to accept, should be competing against any and all who would take this opportunity instead. But there’s fear. Oh, boy, there’s fear. 

“Say I arrange a special meeting with Nat after it all blows over, hmm?” Suggestive sordid eyebrow wriggle number whatever of the night. 

At Peter’s stunned face, breathless and aghast, Tony suddenly pulls back from the table and purses his lips. “Shit, that was inconsiderate of me.”

And Peter wants to nod, say _yes, yes it was Mr. Stark, you cannot pimp out Black Widow!_ but the man is already sipping his drink and leaning forward as if to start another conversation again. “You might not even be into women!”

“Silly me, underestimating the unabashed diversity of your generation, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but-” Mr. Stark is rambling and Peter is so overwhelmed he slurps his champagne.

It’s an amazing thing to behold; especially the excitement in the older man’s eyes like he is in fact the teen meeting his idol, but it’s also pretty terrifying.

“One o’ one with Thor whenever he drops back to Earth?” Peter’s eyes open wide – and just as he thought tonight wasn’t going to get any more ridiculous! “Who’s your favourite Avenger, kid?”

Peter blanches. Takes a drink. Remembers to breathe, but not while taking a drink because that would be three times more embarrassing as anything that’s happening right now. Doesn’t think about getting propositioned by his favourite Avenger, Doesn’tthinkdoesn’tthinkdoesn’tthink –

“Please don’t tell me you’re a Cap-kinda-guy.” Mr Stark’s face falls.

Peter doesn’t reply, because _how can he_? But his silence and gaping mouth is taken for a confirmation because Mr. Stark reaches across the table to give his arm a squeeze. Peter feels like everywhere Mr. Stark’s fingers touch through his suit jacket sets his skin burning. “Oh, kid, that’s gotta be hard. Me asking you to-”

Peter looks up, suddenly finding his voice. 

“I’m not an- I’m not a… I’m not a Cap-kinda-guy, Sir,” he makes out, but once the dam has broken and Mr. Stark is looking at him expectantly, Peter can’t stop talking. “I mean, I do like men and, well- women too, Mr. Stark, but...” Peter breathes through the slightly embarrassing confession. Fucking word vomit. “I’ll do it.” He says quite flatly. “I mean, I’ll do it without any special… favours or arrangements…”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, and a moment later he grins.

“Well why didn’t you just say so, kid?”

The man leans back, sighing in relief and draining the rest of his drink in one fell swoop. “Saved my ass there, kid. Explaining to Nat that her next undercover mission would be having a coffee with a teenager-” An airy, soaring whistle with an eye roll signified just how unspeakable Mr. Stark’s task would be. “Not good.” He finishes, and Peter sips the last of his drink, and looks down at it pointedly. The traitorous thing was empty already?!

Peter looks up and fails to stifle a giggle at the ridiculousness of the man’s half-joke. “Can’t say that it’d be an easy-going date. I’d be pretty terrified of her eating me alive the whole time.”

Mr. Stark winks salaciously, and it’s the exact moment when Peter realises he made a poor choice of words.

“That, kid, is what you need to be counting on.”

And the blush is back, heavier and thicker than expected as blood pools in his cheeks at the same time it floods to his dick. Peter wills himself not to get hard.

Mr. Stark makes a show of standing and checking his high-tech wrist watch, as if to spin the conversation in another direction. Peter practically adores the man for this (as if he didn’t adore him anyway).

“So when’s curfew for you?” 

And in actual fact, Peter did not see that question coming. Especially with the knowledge that Mr. Stark knows he breaks it all the time, what with being ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’ and all. Especially with the knowledge that Mr. Stark has broken maybe one or two laws nonchalantly tonight. Almost as if reading his confusion, Tony goes on to continue.

“I know you break it all the time, kid. But that’s as Spider-Man.”

A gesture. Furrowed brows looking ponderingly over the rim of his finished whiskey glass. 

“Peter Parker has an aunt that wants him home, preferably sober, at…?”

Eyes flick to him expectantly, and Peter gulps. His dick, the second traitorous thing tonight, is in the process of deciding how hard it will get now that the initial shock has worn off. Wretched thing.

“Ten,” he says slowly, knowing that if it isn’t already, it will be very soon.

Mr. Stark breathes a slow breath. Leaves the desk to lay his glass back by the decanters. It’s a slow movement, and for a minute, Peter thinks that there’s something wrong. Until Mr. Stark turns and fixes him with an intense, brooding stare that has Peter’s jaw go slack and said traitorous dick pushing at his zipper. 

“It’s five-to.” Mr. Stark says, cool and calculated.

Peter winces inwardly – the car here took half an hour at least, and Aunt May would be severely unimpressed if the provider of his internship couldn’t get him back on time. 

“It’s no problem,” Peter says abruptly. 

“No, it’s not,” Mr. Stark agrees, and looks away for a minute, seemingly deep in thought. Then, he says something that Peter can only gawk at. “Because I’ll fly you back.”

* * *

It’s a long time after Germany when Mr. Stark contacts Peter again. He’s left waiting, wishing by his cell phone for four hours of each day for the first month after, for Happy to even respond to his messages.

Nothing, nada.

The Avengers have split after the last soul-draining encounter, which makes the lack of action understandable. If there are no Iron Man outings on the news, there won’t be anything for Mr. Stark to need help with.

Some part of Peter hopes he’ll be called out just because Mr. Stark will want him there, but since when hasn’t that been a dream of his? 

Unbelievably, it happens. A brief phone call, detailing how Happy will pick him up and deliver him to Stark tower. Because Tony Stark is ‘restless’. Which, in Peter’s vocabulary means ‘bored’. Tony Stark. Is calling him for an informal meeting. Because he is bored.

Peter rushes out the door, muttering to his aunt about internship business when she approaches him in the hallway. He’s outside on the road before he knows it where the car is already waiting. Red Audi. Bliss.

He slides in awkwardly and feels crippling excitement for the first time in two months. Happy shuts the door behind him, and Peter makes himself relax into the leather seats. Which is pretty much impossible, because every nerve is buzzing. 

The car slides easily away, and Peter entertains himself by thinking over the details from the first meeting – how laid-back Tony had been, not like Iron Man at all. The drinking, the sordid humour, the _flight._ He’s been high before - vertically high, not drugs high (well, he’s smoked weed a couple times with MJ, but he doesn’t mean that kind of high right now) – and nothing can compare to the journey back those months ago.

He’s scaled multi-story buildings, swung from higher places using his web fluid, and probably been thrown higher than both the former and the latter during the fight in Germany. But still, nothing comes close to the memory of being flown home.

(Peter tries to convince himself that the reason why isn’t the fact that he was enclosed so tightly in the arms of one of Mr. Stark’s sentry bots he could imagine that the Iron Man himself was embracing him. He almost manages to do so.)

He’s in the lobby of Mr. Stark’s building before he realises and in the elevator going up before he can catch his breath. Sometimes, with the inappropriately-named Spider-sense dialled up to eleven, time goes so slow that each second feels like painfully organising a pack of jumbled playing cards in sets; other times, time goes so fast that Peter frets that he’s blacking out and losing it. 

Happy leaves him on a different floor from last time – seemingly a rather large open-plan communal lounge. The furnishings are immaculate from the barely-used kitchen and dining area either side of the elevator and walkway, to multiple couches, coffee tables and a large screen on the rear wall of the room. 

Peter feels out of place just standing there, even dressed formal-casual in suit pants and a button-down white shirt.

“Mr. Stark will be with you shortly. I’ll see you at the bottom, kid, if my boss doesn’t make other arrangements like he did last time,” Happy says curtly, with only a hint of annoyance, and no later do the elevator doors shut behind him. Peter is, quite possibly, alone in Mr. Stark’s lounge.

Nosy little shit that he is, Peter walks down to the end of the room where the seating area is, slowly, spending time observing the furniture, cream blinds leaking sunset rays in from where they don’t quite meet. It doesn’t take him long to find out that he is, in fact, alone. How long for, he has no idea, so maybe not a good idea to get too nosy. Or too comfortable. 

Peter finds himself sat on one of the large, white couches directly in front of what must be more than an eighty inch screen.

“So cool,” he mutters to himself, a throwaway comment that he won’t admit to uttering later.

“Are you cold, Peter Parker?” And oh god the voice is everywhere, loud and automated and… feminine? He jumps about five feet in the air, barely resisting the urge to flip upwards and hang onto the ceiling to get away from the unknown.

“Who- Who are you?!” Peter blurts, can’t control it. He forces himself to relax back into the seat – it’s no secret that Mr. Stark has AI assistants, but damn if it didn’t take him by surprise when this one introduced herself out of the blue.

“I am FRIDAY,” the AI confirms. “Boss has told me to adhere to your needs while he is busy.”

Peter is a bit taken aback to say the least, but he still swallows and readies an answer for the AI. “Are you cold, Peter Parker?”

Peter stands a minute, confused to why the A- FRIDAY has asked him this.

“No, Ma’am,” he replies, annoyed but not shocked by his own bashfulness. “The room is lovely, thank you, Ma’am.”

“No, thank you, Peter Parker,” the AI says, and it almost sounds like there’s a tone of amusement to her voice. “You do not have to call me Ma’am, Peter Parker. I’m neither older nor superior to you, even though I am infinitely wiser.”

Peter cracks a smile at this and stifles a giggle. Trust Mr. Stark to program his AI’s with sass. He spares a moment of thoughtful contemplation before asking his next question.

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Peter Parker’?” He asks FRIDAY. “And if not Ma’am then what do I call you?” He adds quickly, feeling as if the AI will jump in to answer his question too promptly if he leaves too much of a gap between statements.

“Boss tells me to call everyone by their given first and last names until I am given further instruction.” And she almost sounds proud, and wow, Peter has to get over the fact that even AI’s can speak with emotive voices before his brain becomes full of tones that FRIDAY has spoken in. “FRIDAY is an abbreviation of my given name, but you can call me FRI.”

“Can you call me Peter?”

“Of course, Peter. Do you like FRI?” Okay, very comprehensive AI. “Boss calls me Baby Girl, if that suits you more.”

And okay, step back. Comprehensive AI? No sweat, Peter can deal. Tony Stark’s personal comprehensive AI? He’s buzzing with excitement. Tony Stark’s personal comprehensive AI being given bed-stroke-pet names by the man himself? Peter doesn’t know whether to run the fuck away or demand audio clips of Mr. Stark addressing FRI for personal use.

“Your heart-rate has climbed rapidly in the last few seconds, Peter. Are you quite alright?” FRI snaps Peter out of his momentary trance.

Somehow, Peter has it in him to breathe again and settle back into the couch. If he had the motivation or the brain cells to right now, he would have asked FRIDAY how on earth she could monitor his heart-rate, but the question slips his disappointingly horny mind.

“Yeah,” he manages to mumble.

Thoughts swarm his head – dangerous, illicit thoughts; thoughts that he should not be having while in the same vicinity as the man who fuels them. He wants to hear Mr. Stark say those words, wants even more for them to be directed at him. He’d be Mr. Stark’s baby boy, his baby girl if the man wanted. And Peter wanted it so much – unbelievably more than he wanted it before he met Mr. Stark.

The wicked tongue on that man, the things he said, lewd and suggestive, because he knew they could be looking like he did. When they’d met before Germany, it had done absolutely nothing to erase the juvenile crush and hero worship he donned for Iron Man. If anything, it had changed it. Perverted it. After all, Iron Man was just a superhero. And Tony Stark – stud, bachelor, debauched philanthropist – was a man. 

“Can I offer you anything?” FRIDAY’s voice is crystal clear and formal once again, and Peter is very much thankful for it tearing him away from his thoughts. “Boss is on his way now, and I’d hate to be punished for not showing our guest correct hospitality.”

Surely, it was FRI’s attempt at humour but it did nothing to calm Peter’s avid imagination.

How would that even work, physically speaking…? No, Peter is not going to debate the logistics of Mr. Stark having an intimate relationship with an AI. Especially not when the man himself is halfway to the room. Although… Peter imagines it would make masturbation more fun. Considering all the things a comprehensive AI like FRIDAY could say… Could do, Peter supposes, if one went as far as to configure _toys_ with the program…

Peter gulps.

The elevator doors open with some kind of housewarming chime. Peter stands and swings around just in time to see a somewhat damp, casually dressed and cheery looking Mr. Stark, can of beer in hand, slinking out of them.

“Mr. Stark!” He exclaims happily, resisting the urge to walk over by compensating it with walking around the sofa instead.

“Hey, kid.” Mr. Stark quirks his lips up slightly, in a way that makes Peter feel slightly uncool for being so jovial.

The man walks closer still and extends a hand out to Peter, which Peter promptly ignores in favour of a hug. Stark laughs and doesn’t reciprocate immediately, but just as Peter is about to pull away and apologise profusely, he gets a compensatory pat on the back as one of Mr. Stark’s arms briefly wrap around him. It’ll do for now.

“Sorry I’m a little wet. Remind me to remind you when you’re as rich and famous as I am to never operate the jets on an overflowing Jacuzzi.”

Peter stumbles away almost immediately at this, near enough tripping over the back of the sofa. “You have a-?!”

“Well, technically I have five, but the one in Canada is a hot spring, the other two in this building are out of oper-”

Peter gasps before he can help himself, and Mr. Stark smiles at the childlike awe on his face. Stark obviously takes the memo. For all that he is a rich, cocky bastard, he does not want to play a game of ‘brag-to-the-2-bedroom-apartment-Queens-child’. 

Peter is just about to let the subject go until something crosses his mind. He frowns, allowing his eyebrows to knit together in a way he hopes looks more inquisitive than unattractive.

“Why were you testing out the Jacuzzi?” He watches attentively as Mr. Stark swigs beer thoughtfully.

“Want to know a secret, Parker?”

And oh god, the second it’s out of his mouth, Peter freezes.

What the… This is definitely one of those moments where he wakes up before even getting to the good part of his dream, dammit! But he doesn’t wake up.

Peter just nods slowly and tries to keep his feet rooted. God knows where this conversation is going, but talking about hot tubs and secrets with Iron Man sounds like a nice direction. Until Peter finally wakes up, of course.

Mr. Stark swigs his beer again, and moves back a little out of Peter’s space. Well, so much for getting in it.

“I was planning to have some female company over tonight,” he says, and well… That really does explain everything.

Peter’s about fifty-percent sure he’s awake now, unless Natasha Romanoff peels around a corner or something and begins eyeing him up. He’d never been all for her before, if he was honest, but after meeting her for the first time in Germany, after seeing the way she fought against Hawkeye… Yeah, enough said.

“I’m so sorry for intruding, Mr. Stark,” Peter begins, and even though Mr. Stark had invited him here, he still feels like it’s the right thing to say. “I can always leave now-”

“No, that’s okay, kid,” Stark says, cutting in sharply but still with amusement in his eyes and a half-smile on his lips. “Figured we’d have a better time anyway.”

And yet again, the suggestion! It burns through Peter, so hot it’s cold, like a too-early sip of freshly-brewed coffee. And Mr. Stark, as opposed to waiting for Peter to stop blinking at him, jaw slack, eyes wide; lines up the next punch with the kid’s teenage-boy hormones. “But the Jacuzzi is hot and thankfully not overfilled anymore, if you’re interested.”

And with that, the bastard turns away and saunters towards the fridge. He crushes the now-empty can of beer in his fist, dropping the can in the trash as he passes it by.

Peter does the math equations in his head. But even math won’t solve this, because holy hell, Peter plus Tony Stark over Jacuzzi makes absolutely no fucking sense-

Tony pulls a beer from the fridge and turns around, cracking open the can with his _teeth._ Peter has a moment to blink and allow his jaw to hang open before Tony’s eyes find his again.

“Want a beer?” And it seems almost criminal – is criminal that Mr. Stark should do that to him.

“Sure.” Peter plays it off casually, and walks closer to Tony.

He’s handed the one that Tony just opened, and Peter feels his brain flutter when he immediately seals his lips over the can and takes a swig. Second-hand mouth-to-mouth, but he figures he can deal.

Mr. Stark pulls another one from the fridge and makes a start towards the elevator. Somewhere along his walk, however, he must have realised Peter wasn’t following him.

“You coming, or what?” Mr. Stark calls, and Peter scrambles to follow the man.

* * *

He totally feels like an overeager kid, but no matter. It’s what he is, after all. An overeager kid, standing awkwardly on the carpet, shuffling his loafer-clad feet nervously while Mr. Stark kneels before a marble dresser.

The man seems in a somewhat agitated rush, pulling out shorts and trunks one at a time, examining them for a brief second before throwing them over his shoulder with a huff. Of course, he would have an extensive collection of swimwear.

“We don’t have to,” Peter offers, as the throwing of the clothes becomes a little more frantic, a little more agitated.

Mr. Stark suddenly turns then, eyebrows all frown-y and concerned.

“Bullshit, kid.”

He turns back to the drawer then, pulling out a pair of somewhat faded American flag board shorts.

“If I can’t show you the benefits of a hot tub and decent beer, what kind of mentor would I be?” 

Peter gulps as the board shorts are examined. Then something unexpected happens.

“Aha!” Mr. Stark is pulling at the waistband of said shorts as he turns on his knees to face Peter. “Told you I’d find something that’d fit you.”

Peter stares at the shorts for a moment, and opts for a generous smile, ever-so glad they are _not_ tiny and skin-tight. 

“Honestly not feeling too patriotic, but thanks.” 

Tony grins at the joke as he gets off his knees. There’s a slight wince in the furrow of his brows, the fluttering of his eyelashes, which would be unnoticeable to anyone unless they had inhuman perception. Peter does though, and the thought of Mr. Stark having aches and pains like any man his age has Peter both panicking and feeling slightly relieved. More proof that he is just a man. 

“Thought you liked big ol’ Capsicle?” A wicked smirk.

Peter takes another swig of his beer, careful not to grimace. 

“Well, he’s definitely not as attractive up close.” 

Peter gets the shorts thrown at his face for that quip, and he snatches them up before they fall. Tony’s guffawing makes the room seem unnaturally big.

“Bet’cha can’t say the same for the Widow?” 

Peter allows himself to break the snark for a grin then, and really doesn’t allow himself to think on it.

“Anyway, bathroom’s in there.” Tony gestures to a door not far from the chest of drawers he’s stood in front of.

“Aren’t you going to change first?” Peter offers, but Stark just shakes his head, smile sly.

“I’ll change on the balcony. Give New York the show of their life.”

Peter opts out of responding to that one and slinks into the bathroom, shorts in hand.

By the time he’s changed into them, and pulled the damn strings tight until they fit reliably on his scrawny hips, Mr. Stark is on the balcony. In a pair of teeny, tiny black shorts.

_OK_ , Peter thinks as he adjusts himself in the American flag boardies and lays his suit and loafers neatly on the bed. _I’m just going to have to_ _fucking deal_. 

He goes to the balcony, wide-eyed and filled with trepidation. Goes back to the dresser top for his beer before he can forget it and steels himself with a hearty swig. Then, Peter slides open the balcony doors.

Mr. Stark beams at him, walking over, and Peter wills his eyes to look anywhere but at the damn shorts. Muscular legs, treasure trail, pecs, broad shoulders – okay, nowhere except face. Peter gulps. This is the worst best wet dream ever.

Peter lets himself be distracted by the whirring of the Jacuzzi only feet away, the NY skyline all lit up prettily, the cold night air sending shivers down his skin.

“Ready to get in, kid?” Mr. Stark says, and it’s like all that effort spent on not looking has been wasted. He’s close enough to touch now – all sweaty from exposure to the hot tub heat and dark golden brown in the blue-white light. And Mr. Stark’s black swim pants really do leave nothing to imagination. The dimensions of his hips, the curve of his dick-

Peter takes the last swig of his beer and crumples the can, hoping the beer will get to him before the erection does.

“Hold up, you need another drink,” Stark says, like it’s nothing and takes the can out of his hands, nonchalant at the contact of his fingers against Peters own.

He strolls back into the bedroom, and Peter has absolutely no reservations against staring at Mr. Stark’s sculpted calves and firm rear as he walks off. Of course the billionaire would have a beer fridge in every damn bedroom, so it’s no surprise to Peter when he comes back seconds later with a can of the same stuff in each hand.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmurs, and takes the beer from his hand, desperate to have something to occupy himself with other than the naked fucking hot man in front of him. He cracks it open, awry with his own restlessness. 

“Ready to get in now?” Tony speaks and cracks his own open, taking a sip.

Peter watches, and tries not to look as engaged in the motions of Mr. Stark’s throat as he is. It probably doesn’t work; there must be something wrong with Peter’s wiring tonight because all notions of his own coyness have gone amiss. The unreality of the situation is making him twitchy.

“Sure,” Peter says, and turns towards a tub built into the floor of the balcony – the kind they have in open-air spas.

Peter only has a moment to consider the logistics of what having something like this would mean for the floor below before a warm palm on his back has him gasping aloud. He shudders and tries to calm his nerves before the hair on his arms stands to attention. 

“Cool it, kid,” Tony muses, and oh god, is that the feeling of fingertips on his back trailing patterns? “I don’t bite.”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say, judging by how fast Peter’s dick stirs up. Oh- oh god. His grip on the beer tightens – almost enough to dent the can, as his brain supplies how many sinful, delicious things Tony could do if he _did_ bite.

Almost as if his body helps him over helping his dick, he moves to sit himself on the hot tub side. He can’t help the moan of contentment as his feet and legs fall into the water. It’s so hot, almost too hot, but so goddamn good. The jets caress his legs soundly, and Peter gulps. Takes another swig of his beer, finally starting to feel the first stirrings of the booze hitting his system.

“That good, huh?”

When Peter turns around, it’s Mr. Stark behind him, an appreciative look on his face. The height imbalance does nothing to calm the boy – it’s likely the reason why he slips deeper into the hot tub until he’s sat on the built-in seat. 

“Yeah,” Peter muses, leaning his head back on the side, closing his eyes, and letting the heat envelop him.

Tony seems to take this as an acceptable answer and steps around Peter to get in from the side on his right.

Peter closes his eyes to avoid the temptation to look. It works. Works even better when he lays his beer behind his head blindly and stretches his arms out to bracket his body on the tub side. 

He can feel when Mr. Stark gets settled in beside him under the water, and has a moment to ponder why the man isn’t across from him when a hand settles next to his, fingertips splayed so much that they caress his. So much for the erection dissipating.

“So how’s this for a first time, kid?”

Peter leans his head up off the side of the tub and meets the man’s eyes, not even trying to keep the dazed, languid lust out of his. 

“Huh?” Peter says and licks his lips. He tastes chlorine and alcohol, and lets a slow smile form on his face. He’s dazed, maybe a little tipsy and love-drunk on the feeling of the jets against his skin.

Mr. Stark looks at him almost through the same haze, sipping from his can.

“Am I slurring? I have been drinking since midday.” 

“No- no, sir.” Peter makes his reply brief and looks away quickly, because the scrutiny of Mr. Stark’s gaze is almost too much.

In the light from the illuminated city, the man looks like he knows everything about Peter.

“It’s so good.” Peter feels eyes burning into him still, even when he leans back, carefully to avoid the beer behind his head. He relaxes his fingers, trying not to care when they brush against Mr. Stark’s. 

“You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’, y’know?” Tony says, and Peter tries to stop himself from flinching when a knee touches against his under the water, bare and hot and – 

Breathe, Peter.

Tony’s leaning over him now, in a way that can only be described as predatory.

Peter – can’t believe it. What. The fuck. The knee presses closer, until there’s a furred shin on his. The contact shouldn’t make Peter’s fingers flex and his dick twitch painfully.

“What did you get up to today, anyway?”

The direction of the conversation and the sheer amount of physical contact must be completely normal to Tony, but Peter just can’t get over it. Can’t- can’t-

And the thought that Tony does this with other people as well, _god_ how many times has he shared a Jacuzzi with Thor, or Nat, or _Clint_? It riles Peter up like nothing else and he has to suck in a breath and take another drink of his beer before he can answer.

“School?” Peter suggests, and it might be a squeak because Tony takes this moment to lean over him a little more so he can really feel the difference in their height. 

“Mm?” Tony utters, and Peter gulps some more beer and firms a hand down his own leg underwater – anything to distract him from his own damn dick.

“Nothing exciting. Just the usual.”

Peter looks to Mr. Stark's gaze once again, somewhat thankful that the man has gone back to staring at the NY skyline and leaning, fortunately, back out of Peter’s space. In fact, Peter doesn’t know if this is fortunate or unfortunate. Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore, because Mr. Stark is back in his space with his eyes trained on Peter, leg moving against the boy’s underwater. It must be nothing to Mr. Stark, but to Peter, it’s practically teasing at this point.

“God, kid, is there nothing exciting in your life apart from me and the arachnid?”

A frown, directed at him, and Peter straightens up enough to get both hands underwater and sit up in attention. He flushes a little and looks down, securing his next answer. 

“Well, there’s a lot that happens,” Peter muses drily, finally, out into the hot steam of the spa. 

Mr. Stark is still watching him intently, and Peter gulps. “But I thought we could probably talk about other things right now.”

He bites his lip, and Peter swears it isn’t to give off the vibe of a hopeful sub, but maybe it does anyway. Mr. Stark’s still watching him though, and so maybe he has to finish the statement.

“It’s all really stuff you’d know at a glance of my file, Sir. Grades, my aunt, Ned and MJ, my hobbies...” Peter allows himself to trail off, and maybe it does work because Mr. Stark is cracking a grin.

“You just want to talk about secret-Avengers-secrets, don’t you?”

And yeah, this is a nice direction. Peter supposes he has a chance in hell at knowing them judging by the still-present grin on Tony’s face. 

“I’d love to. Could we, please?” And that was scrambled, but it will have to do for now. 

Apparently, it does sort something out because Mr. Stark is gesturing with his hands towards a device over at the corner of the balcony, and the hot tub jets stop.

“Can actually hear you properly now. Don’t wanna be talking over the damn whirring.” Mr. Stark swigs his beer gracelessly, so Peter does the same. And when he lays his can back behind his head and turns to face Mr. Stark, the man is all up in his space, leg firming ever closer into Peter’s.

Peter gulps and waits for the next words. The water stills, and Peter looks down and instantly regrets it. He can see where they’re touching now, can see Mr. Stark’s best features clearly under the water.

Damn, he’s fucked.

There’s steam rising off the tub, and another small mechanical noise coming from the tub, so Peter assumes the water’s still being heated. 

“So what did you wanna know? Hell, kid, you never told me who your favourite Avenger was?!” And this... Any question but that.

Peter considers lying to preserve his sanity, but his coyness only has such limits, and those limits are being poked every second by a muscled, haired shin pressing up against his. Eyes down, head bowed, Peter Parker actually begins to grow a pair of stones.

“Actually, it was- It was Iron Man.” He looks up to see Tony’s grin, and just as a hand is about to clap him on the shoulder, the grin falters and the arm pulls back.

“Was?!”

The expression on Mr. Stark’s face is almost laughable. He looks like someone shot three puppies in front of him, and then the puppies bled sad, smeared rainbows. It’s the most genuinely shock-deflated-what-the-fuck face that Peter’s ever seen.

Peter deflates a little into himself as well. His genuine reason is uttered meekly, but maybe Mr. Stark will understand. “Scarlet Witch.”

Which... Yeah, totally good enough. The smile returns on Mr. Stark’s face. “Before or after Germany, kid? Please don’t tell me that it was after meeting me that you changed your mind?”

“After meeting her, actually.”

This gets a loud, genuine laugh. “I asked who your favourite Avenger was, not which one you wanted to bang!”

That’s a little sexist, because Wanda, if you exclude Vision, is probably the most powerful on the team, so she does have favourite Avenger rights and all, but Peter doesn’t look into it too much. Growing more and more balls by the minute, Peter clears his throat and talks before he thinks. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Oops. Oops oops and oops some more when Mr. Stark’s face goes through several stages of considering looks.

_Fuck impulsivity_ , Peter thinks drily _. Really don’t try it at home, kids_.

Peter looks away from the man’s eyes – so much for having balls – and waits for the leg pressing into him to flinch away dramatically when Mr. Stark light-bulb-moments everything. Waits a few more seconds in silence and morosely sips at his beer, because this could indeed be the last time Peter drinks Mr. Stark’s beer.

“So you mean.... – oh.” Mr. Stark finishes weakly.

Peter would have spoken to clarify, but he can only sit there in the quiet and slink further down into the hot tub to warm his shoulders. There’s some kind of dry laugh, but the leg doesn’t move away from his. “Fuck, kid, I am so sorry.”

And Peter looks up, because damn, that was something that was unexpected. He’d expected pity alright, but not pity like this. Mr. Stark is still looking down at him, though he’s leant back and away as to not crowd Peter in.

“I’ve really not been fair on you. And oh, God, I’ve been a horrible, incorrigible tease without even intendi- Do I- Do you want me to move that leg?”

It’s moved.

“Didn’t even consider it, and I’m supposed to be a genius!” Mr. Stark chuckles to himself then, but the mood breaks fast when he meets Peter’s eyes.

Peter, who is just sitting there, letting it roll over him. Peter who can’t believe he would be so stupid as to confess like that. “I mean, even if you did, but don’t anymore, that’s still gotta be a – fuck, kid, I am so sorry.”

And yeah, it kinda stings that his big ‘hero-worship-crush’ thing is outta the bag like this, and all Mr. Stark can do is apologise for the way he’s been acting, but it could have been worse. It isn’t straight up rejection. At least, not yet. 

“I should be arrested. I should have a- a- a badge or something that says here ‘ignorant tease’, like I should be someone that parents hide their children fro-” 

There’s a definitive reason that the sentence cut off, and Peter is so fucking glad he’s met someone else in the world that says stupid things and slips up when they get nervous. Although those last words sting more than the whole situation does. Hurts even more that the sentence couldn’t be spoken because of its implications, and really, Peter doesn’t know why it does. It’s not like he expected Mr. Stark to see him as anything other than a kid.

“It’s okay,” Peter cuts in, and Mr. Stark meets his eyes. Peter swears he had an intelligent, convoluted sentence already made up in his head, and it’s still in there somewhere, damn it. At a loss for said long convoluted sentence, Peter goes for short and smart-ass. “You’re really not as dreamy in person.”

The reaction he gets is similar to the deflated-shocked one earlier when he clarified that Iron Man _used to be_ a favourite.

“I’ll have you know that I’m exactly as handsome as the magazines and internet makes me out to be, thank you very much!”

And yeah, Mr. Stark may have him there. He is, if not more, handsome and somewhere inside Peter, it hurts to think that. The affronted look doesn’t last very long, and Peter hasn’t got another smart-ass reply to continue the current subject away from Mr. Stark’s guilt, and so he goes into another apology.

“Honestly, I shouldn’t be allowed around people. I’ve made innuendos, kid. About you! To you! I get you drunk, I make you spidey-suits, I-” A pause as Mr. Stark’s eyebrows knit together and he looks down under the water. “Shit, is there anything more suggestive than a Jacuzzi and these shorts?!” 

“I’m – really not complaining.” Peter says, eyebrow raised playfully. He figures he really needs to stop growing balls by this point, and probably needs to stop drinking too. Nothing better can come out of this. He’ll be horrified at the suggestion that he said something like this later on tonight. 

Mr. Stark gives him a quick up and down, regarding him for a minute. The frenzy he once was in leaves as fast as it had come about, giving way to a somewhat tense calm.

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” A cool and somewhat non-committal sip of beer, and Peter’s breath catches in his throat. The man of his dreams and lucid fantasies stares deep into him, and Peter feels like time has stopped.

“I need a drink.”

The conclusion makes Peter gulp. He politely averts his eyes when Mr. Stark stands up in the tub. But there’s no further movement. Unable to resist temptation any longer, Peter looks up into the eyes – nowhere else – of the man looming over him. Mr. Stark just stands and regards Peter in the same way he did when he sat down. Intense, and unabashed, and sexy.

“Stare all you want, kid. I don’t mind.”

It sounds like it should be said with the usual, comical and quirky Stark trademark tone, but it isn’t. It’s deep, and serious, and it makes Peter’s chest pound in disbelief. Mr. Stark finally stops observing Peter to get out the tub, the movement of his muscular thigh stepping up onto the rim of it impossible not to ogle. 

Peter takes maybe five minutes processing. Maybe longer, he can’t tell. It’s just that maybe, a chance in hell maybe, something’s going to happen tonight.

Peter’s slightly drunk on beer, mostly drunk on the intensity of tonight’s occurrences. He’s horny as fuck, knows he’s going to be humping his sheets like a fevered rabbit when he gets home – if he can even wait til then – and really doesn’t want to think about the consequences right now.

Peter gets out the tub and tracks Stark’s footprints inside, not worrying about a towel when he’s sure his erection has gone down. The cold air on his skin pebbles his nipples, raises goose-bumps up his arms. 

As expected, Mr. Stark is sat on the bed, nursing a decanter of something amber and probably impossibly expensive. There’s no glass, just a decanter. The thought that Mr. Stark is drinking straight from it is amusing and terrifying. 

Brown eyes snap up to meet his the moment Peter begins pulling open the sliding balcony doors. They aren’t warm – could have even been angry if it wasn’t for the dilated pupils. They’re dark and blown, wild. Like a shark that has not only smelt blood, but has seen something bleeding.

Mr. Stark’s still in the tight swim shorts and damp too, hair moist and somewhat lank, stuck to his neck. The bed sheets curl around him, mussed. Mr. Stark has never looked better, not even in Peter’s fantasies.

There’s a quiet before the storm, as there always is. Petrifying and passionate, like a brooding God. So then when it finally hits, the storm feels all-consuming, all-enveloping. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter questions and knows he really shouldn’t. It’s bad to break silences like this, even worse to break them with an invitation. 

The answer he gets is the decanter tilted towards him.

“You can’t be this sober for a conversation like this, kid.”

It’s all the incentive Peter needs. He moves closer and takes the odd shaped bottle, pulling a small sip from it. The taste is dreadful, sickly sweet, and strong like solvent. It doesn’t make Peter gag or cough, but it does draw a grimace. 

As Peter finds out, scotch is the cure for everything. He feels a warm pool fill in his stomach after the second sip and takes a final one just so his head feels light and buzz-y. 

“Better?” He confirms with Mr. Stark.

The only answer he gets is the man removing the bottle from his grasp and leaning back to place it on a bedside table. No longer having to keep his intention a secret, Peter allows himself to watch as muscles flex and stretch, as the nylon over Mr. Stark’s crotch grows taut and leaves no curve to the imagination.

“You’d do anything I asked, wouldn’t you?” 

It’s barely a murmur, and Mr. Stark is still facing the opposite direction when the words are spoken, but Peter knows he heard it right. Peter licks his suddenly dry lips, tasting the liquor on them.

He’s drunk – not as drunk as he felt last time he was here, but certainly drunk enough to say, “Anything.”

Breathy, near panted-out words, and you’d have to be an oblivious, elderly saint not to hear the arousal in Peter’s voice. Mr. Stark shifts until his legs are off the bed, facing Peter now, and his eyes burn into the trail of saliva across the boy’s bottom lip. It’s hot, so hot that Peter can feel his own heartbeat in his balls.

“You’d do whatever I wanted.”

“God -- _Yes_.” 

It’s almost a whine.

Peter’s legs give out and he drops to his knees in front of the bed, ungainly and awkward. He feels like every nerve ending is on fire, burning up like his brain. He can’t think – can’t feel. Can only see the eyes looking down at him, black and shining like dead fire; can only see cupid-bow lips forming breaths out in pants.

“Stand up.” The command is subtle, but it’s there alright.

Peter shifts to his feet once again, knees still weak. He’s so turned-on he feels like he could come any minute, untouched. He stands, and Mr. Stark stands too. The space between them is sparse, and Peter’s knees knock into Mr. Stark’s shins lightly as they shake.

“God, baby.” And it’s almost said approvingly. Mr. Stark cards a hand up from Peter’s shoulder to clasp the back of his neck – Peter shivers and gasps. “You’re wound up so tight.” 

The boy keeps his eyes open, not wanting to miss a thing of this. Peter’s still not fully convinced it’s actually happening, but he’s too into it to care. Though the hand cupping the back of his neck, grip firm, is undeniable. His knees almost buckle again as he inhales deeply through his nose, smelling chlorine and scotch and _man_.

Peter can’t say anything – can’t talk, won’t talk for fear of ruining the moment. He belatedly realises his dick has not had a moment of reprieve tonight, and is at full-mast, spewing pre-cum into Mr. Stark’s soaked swim-shorts.

Oh, god, in _Mr. Stark’s_ swim-shorts.

His legs really do fail him then, but before he can fall forward, strong hands grip him at the waist, steadying him.

“Fuck, you’re like a walking-” A sharp intake of breath, and Peter moans and presses closer, weight into Mr. Stark.

He’s like an immovable object, solid and stable, and fuck if that’s sexy. The hands on his hips push him away a little and Peter groans in loss, bucking his hips up for contact. He’s so far gone he might as well be a mindless beast. He curls his nails inwards, focusing all that strength into his own palms so he doesn’t hurt Mr. Stark. 

“You’re like a walking aphrodisiac.”

Peter cries out as the hands on his hips clamp down hard enough to halt his motions. Mr. Stark utters a noise that sounds dreadfully like a groan, and Peter feels a pull from his balls to the base of his spine, to his toes.

“You’re turning me on by being so turned on, kid.” And it’s filthy, the endearment used like this.

Peter feels his mind flash white as lips brush against his neck. His hands, having nearly bled thrice from being abused by his nails, scramble for purchase on the foot of the bed behind Mr. Stark. Peter wants nothing more than to push the man back onto the mattress and rut against him until completion, but he resists this urge, if only for the distant recollection of nerves. 

Mr. Stark reaches behind him and takes one of Peter’s hands in his own, mournfully pulling away from where he was hovering over the boy’s neck. He brings Peter’s hand around – to the front of his body –

Oh, _god._

That’s Mr. Stark’s dick up against his palm, through a thin layer of swim shorts. Peter groans and clamps his fingers around the shape. He’s – he feels big. Huge in his hand, hot and heavy and... hard. A hiss escapes the man above him. Peter’s palm is pressed harder into Mr. Stark’s crotch by his hand. 

“Feel what you do to me?” It’s said coherently, but Mr. Stark sounds breathless and almost as turned on as Peter is.

Peter gasps, fingers clenching and unclenching around the clothed dick in his hand. His other hand goes, as if on impulse, to Mr. Stark’s chest, to his pec. Fingers brushing over his nipple, hot and tentative. 

“Please, please, _please_ ,” Peter begs, but he doesn’t know what for.

“God, kid-” Mr Stark groans and _bucks up_ into his palm. Peter grasps harder, eyes falling closed. 

“Mr. Stark, you feel so-” A hand reaching down to his own cock, “Uhhhn, _please_.” And now Peter knows exactly what he’s begging for, a fist curling around him like a lifeline. Peter feels like he could come just from this, hot and livid like the best of his dreams. 

And then the pressure and intensity stops. He’s pushed away, hard. 

“I can’t- I can’t.” Mr Stark’s words almost seem otherworldly, muffled by Peter’s own desire.

He whines high in his throat, unable to do anything but that. He knows he’s got the ability to pull Mr. Stark closer, knows he could let his spider-strength come into play and fucking _ruin_ the man; actually considers it because Peter knows Mr. Stark wouldn’t protest once his shorts were around his thighs. 

Peter gulps, steps backand doesn’t.

He pulls both hands back to his sides, pushes his nails into his palms. It stops him from touching.

Mr. Stark pants into the space between them, shakes his hair out like a wet dog. Whatever he did there, it seems to have worked, because there’s a trademark smile back on his face within seconds. Peter allows himself to blatantly watch as Mr. Stark adjusts himself in the tiny swim-shorts, allows himself to wince as the head of the dick he was touching only moments before pokes momentarily from the waistband before it’s tucked back in.

Peter licks his lips – a mostly unconscious and fast gesture. The moment has passed – there’s no point being ridiculously horny now. Or maybe there is.

Peter looks up to see that trademark smile on Mr. Stark’s face crumple. Eyes fixate on Peter’s lips, and Peter lets them fall open maybe a little too much upon his next breathless inhale, maybe flicking his tongue a little just to let Mr. Stark know that making out is an option too.

Mr. Stark responds by acting like nothing happened and swigging more whiskey. 

Peter unclenches his fingers and straight-up _whines_ , eyes falling closed as his cock gives a defeated twitch.

“Baby...” It’s almost uttered under the man’s breath. Peter lets his eyes open languidly, the moment Mr. Stark’s fingers grace the skin of his cheek. “We can’t.” Mr Stark looks at him so soft and sweet, like he really does want him.

Unconsciously, Peter nuzzles into the touch like an affection-starved dog. He’s never felt anything more powerful in his life – the arousal, the adoration, the way his body responds to the commands and praise Mr. Stark gives him. The hand is gone as soon as it came about, though, and Peter is stunned, shocked, and still incredibly hard, left feeling like that was the official conclusion to tonight’s high jinks.

Mr. Stark clears his throat. “Shower’s in the bathroom, kid.” He eyes Peter up and down very quickly, then gestures to a stack of clothes and Peter’s shoes by the headboard of the bed. “Don’t be afraid to... uh.. Take your time in there?” 

It’s supposed to be a humorous innuendo, like the ones Mr. Stark made previously in Peter’s company. But now, they feel different. They don’t hold as much intent and meaning, which is surprising when Peter considers that they should hold more because of what just happened. Mr. Stark turns and begins to walk away, and Peter can’t help himself. One last goddamn-

“Mr. Stark?” It’s not as loud and assertive as Peter would like, but it does the job. The man stops in his tracks and casts a look over his shoulder, effortless and somewhat inattentive.

“Hm?” He replies, and stares Peter down from the awkward angle.

Peter’s words die on his tongue, and he suddenly feels awkward and ungainly again. He looks down to the floor, asking it for support. It gives him only a little. “Do you think maybe you could- I mean, if I could.” Peter stops for a minute. Looks to Mr. Stark for guidance, but all he gets is furrowed brows over one shoulder. Goddammnit, he was so good at having balls for just one night. 

“Can’t I just touch myself here?”

Uttering that aloud was a blow so big it shocks Peter – hell, it even shocks Mr. Stark. Peter watches on, inwardly cringing at himself for just blurting it out like that, as Mr. Stark snaps his head to face away and shoots a hand to—

He can’t have just reached down to-

“Please, baby, you gotta stop.” The words are breathless, the groan that follows uttered.

Peter’s mind is abuzz with a million different things, because if Mr. Stark is hard and lustful because of _him_ , then how is that incentive for Peter to stop?! The boy gasps, his own hand reaching to massage his dick back to full hardness. The problem with Peter, is that once he gains courage, he can’t seem to lose it.

“Please, Mr. Stark, you don’t have to touch me, I’ll be such a good boy for you, please,” Peter babbles and it’s almost incoherent. He’s so horny, so tired of fighting with reasoning and his own anxiety to even be ashamed of how he’s acting right now. He sees the moment Mr. Stark’s resolve almost crumples – the shiver that takes the man at his knees – the particularly vicious movement of an arm. And then-

“Shower, Peter.”

It’s quick, it’s brisk – Peter’s so frustrated he’s going to kill something inanimate like a lamppost or a billboard on the way home – but at least it’s not negative. Mr. Stark leaves the room, and even shuts the balcony door behind him for emphasis. 

Peter is alone, with nothing but his hand and his lack of dignity. Nothing new.

* * *

In comparison to the rest of the night, the small portion before he leaves Mr. Stark’s is textbook. Peter showers. Peter jerks off frantically in the shower, twice because he gets hard again washing his hair and remembering how Mr. Stark had touched him, and also because the spider-sense-thingy won’t let him calm down for a moment. He takes his time second time around, is even unabashedly noisy, just in case Mr. Stark had decided to come back into the room. 

Peter considers fingering himself, opening himself up just to give FRIDAY and any surveillance watching a real damn good show. Peter, unsurprisingly, doesn’t. He’s lost his balls, which doesn’t surprise him in the slightest – judging by how empty they are now – and feels like he’d be doing Mr. Stark an injustice by putting himself on display like that. 

It’s a bittersweet kind of rejection, Peter thinks, as he angles the showerhead to wash semen off the tile. He knows that Mr. Stark would be thinking about him indecently now – even if he hadn’t been before tonight. He knows that Mr. Stark would touch him right with those hands, fuck him good – boneless, senseless, and oh-so-deep – if only it weren’t for the man’s objections.

Peter tries not to think about it too much. Tries not to think about anything when he’s drying himself off with a towel, because he knows it will propel him into thinking about how to drive those objections away, and the thrill of his celebrity and superhero crush wanting to _do him_. It really is a rock and a hard place. 

And not of the good kind, Peter concludes, when he gets out of the bathroom, hair towel around his shoulders, dress shirt and pants donned, shoulders slightly hunched in defeat. Mr. Stark, is of course, waiting for him in the bedroom. He’s left the scotch decanter in favour of a nondescript full whisky glass, and he’s fully dressed now – jeans and an off-white button-down shirt. These facts would matter less, Peter thinks, if Mr. Stark lost all his sex appeal the moment he put his clothes back on.

Unfortunately for Peter, this isn’t the case.

“You took your time,” Tony begins. The obligatory smirk is back on the man’s face. It’s supposed to be a harmless comment.

It isn’t. 

“I am genuinely sorry, Mr. Stark, but it was time well spent.” Peter can’t stop himself from making last pass attempts. Every one of them is feebler than the last, and by this point he knows that the only action he will get is on Mr. Stark’s terms. If he can only push the man enough to make a move-

“I’ll bet it was.” Drawled out like sex on a stick, low and slow from the alcohol. Peter’s breath catches in his throat. Mr. Stark looks at Peter like he’s already wet and open for the taking, like the only thing that’s missing from him is his dick. He can’t get hard again, but Peter’s body wants to try anyway. “FRIDAY.” A call out in the quiet, and suddenly the voice around Peter is back, like it’s coming from every part of the room. Peter curls his socked feet into the carpet. 

“Yes, Boss?” FRI confirms. Mr. Stark continues looking at Peter, dead in his eyes like he did before everything happened, sexy and intense and intimidating.

“Save all the footage from this room and the bathroom from the last half an hour to my own personal drive. Encrypt it the way I demonstrated last week and delete it from the general storage.”

“Yes, Boss.”

A pause. Peter gawps at Mr. Stark for a long moment while he looks away from Peter and scrunches his face up in seconds of pondering. “Encrypt the folder, and the files, separately. Different method for each of the files, Baby Girl.”

“You got it, Boss.”

“And FRI? Get the last hour instead of the half an hour. And make sure, when the files are on my personal, delete any copy of them anywhere else.”

“Should Miss Potts come looking, do I simply tell her that the room was empty all night so we deleted the recordings as to protocol?”

“You got it, Baby Girl.”

And Peter is still there gawking, like an idiot. Because he’d assumed that there had been security measures, even in the bathrooms, but not that they’d be picked up on like this. He can’t really say anything, not until Mr. Stark has had the time to drink more scotch, and smirk at him a little while longer.

“What if I had- what if I- what if I had actually been going to the bathroom?!” And yeah, maybe it is a strange thing to say. Mr. Stark shrugs through Peter’s disbelief.

“FRI would have cut it for me. She knows that things that get saved to my personal drive are for late night use. You didn’t, did you?”

“N-No,” Peter fumbles to reply, not knowing whether it’s more embarrassing to have spent all that time jerking it in the shower than it would be to get caught urinating on camera.

Mr. Stark laughs at him then, closing the distance between them. “I’m a pretty kinky guy, but there are some lines that even I don’t cross.” A hand clasps around his shoulders then, damp with the towel covering them. “Let me take you home, baby.” Peter puts on his shoes quickly, aware of Mr. Stark watching him bend down effortlessly. He straightens up and tries not to wobble; uses Mr. Stark’s arm around him for more support than is necessary on the way back up. 

Peter is once again rendered useless, near enough stumbling over his feet to get to the elevator as Mr. Stark guides him on. He doesn’t know where he stands now – what the future holds, what tonight even _means_ anymore. It’s so much more uncertain than it was earlier, and even though doubt clouds his mind and there are so many questions Peter wants to ask, the arm around his shoulders keeps him grounded and silenced.

They get into the elevator, and the arm moves, taking the damp towel with it, off Peter’s shoulder. The towel is hung neatly on a handrail in the lift, before Mr. Stark hits the button titled ‘GA’. Garage. Peter gulps. Surely the man wouldn’t drive while this intoxicated? A man that would commit that offence would surely disregard the two years that Peter was underage?

Peter has no time to think on it again, before the arm is draped over his shoulder with surprising weight, almost certainty. The elevator drops fast, but hardly fast enough to unsettle Peter. He’s used to falling and flying, after all.

“Kid?”

The elevator stops, but the doors don’t open. Peter’s turned by the hand around his shoulders, until he’s looking up, blinking, into Mr. Stark’s eyes. The moment is so tense – so silent compared to the rest of the house. So quiet that the white noise around is almost eerie.

“You know we can’t.” Uttered, like the last of a prayer. Peter gasps – sees the softness of budding arousal in Mr. Stark’s eyes. For a moment of pure and utter frustration at the topic being brought up like this, Peter shoots off an accusatory glare at Tony, shrugging out of the embrace like a petulant child.

“You want to.” Expecting an expression of shock and horror on Mr. Stark’s face at his statement, Peter himself ends up with the petrified expression as Mr. Stark cracks up into a wide grin, a hearty laugh.

“I really do, kid.” A long pause. “Everything inside me that’s not my moral compass is telling me to _take you_.” Mr. Stark turns to look Peter in the eyes again, as if they really were the windows to his soul. Peter can feel his palms sweating, feels unreality blur into an arousal-fed haze as words continue coming. “Telling me to lick into your mouth till you’re fucking my leg, to push you down to your knees and show me how you’d suck my cock, to eat you out until you’re crying for-”

“Hah-...” Peter allows his hand to smack against the glass of the elevator. It doesn’t shatter- please don’t shatter-

A pulse firms in the taught muscles of his stomach, almost jumping to the base of his spine, but it’s _too early_ , he can’t get hard _again_ . He can’t- can’t, but his eyes are scrunching up involuntarily as the feeling continues, like he’s close to coming but without being hard to get close. It hurts, but it hurts so _good_. 

“God, you’re so easy for me,” Mr. Stark whistles appreciatively, and holy hell, Peter had almost forgotten he had an audience.

“Mr.- Mr. Stark, I. I.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I’ll stop now.”

Peter opens his eyes to Mr. Stark looking down at him, dragging in a breathy inhale. He’s so done for, so live-wired that maybe he’d have to sleep for a hundred years to feel at peace again. “Please- don’t.” He manages, and extracts his palms carefully from the elevator mirrors. Mr. Stark laughs at Peter again, and Peter feels like he should feel coyer or more ashamed than he currently does. The elevator doors open when the man pushes a symbol on the wall, and Peter blinks his eyes open to a white-LED-lit room. 

The infamous sunset-orange Audi. A highest-end white Corvette. Cherry Dodge Viper, Rolls, Ferrari. 

Peter’s not looking. And not looking at all. It’s all too much to comprehend, and cars really aren’t his wet dream but he has an idea of the amount of boys his age who would cream themselves just walking in here. 

“The Audi is the only one that self-drives, kid, because fuck if I’m driving you home right now.” Mr. Stark’s voice spurs him out of his momentary trance. He looks back to the man, not even trying to keep the awe off his face. Mr. Stark looks somewhat sheepish. “Otherwise, I’d give you a choice.”

“It’s fine.” Peter croaks, because _damn._

“FRI knows your address, she’ll take you.” And with that, Mr. Stark turns on his heel and walks a few steps back inside the elevator. Peter’s jaw drops, because if these aren’t some mixed signals then god only knows what are. Mr. Stark wants him, wants to _do_ things to him, has video footage of Peter jerking it _saved to his literal spank bank_ , but won’t accompany him home.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter feels himself calling out uncertainly for the whatever-amount of times tonight. The man’s back is still facing Peter, and a hand is held up, a stopping gesture from the rear. Peter’s breath catches in his throat, unable to move for a second. All he wants to do is run over there, demand that everything still be okay, plead for forgiveness for his own behaviour tonight.

“Whatever you’re about to ask, Peter, I’m sure the answer is going to be a ‘ _no_ ’. No, you cannot tell anyone; especially not your aunt. No, I’m not unlocking the wheel so you can drive. No, I’m not accompanying you home – I don’t trust myself around you right now. Etcetera.” 

“I was going to ask if we could do this again sometime.” Peter does have to amend the question to something that Mr. Stark had not already answered, but as far as questions go... It’s a fairly open one that should give Peter the answer he needs to sleep easier. Mr. Stark does turn on his heels then to look at Peter across the stretch between them, eyes glistening.

“Of course, kid. Just not.” A pause. A long pause, and Peter feels his breath leave him in one go, because he’s got an answer but not one he wants to hear. “Not like this. FRI, take me up.”

The elevator doors close almost immediately, and Peter is alone again, wishing that he, like the cars, could be something that Mr. Stark rides.


End file.
